


What lies beneath

by Anonymous



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-11-29 08:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You’re out of excuses, Bruce.”





	What lies beneath

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: 100 words of hurt/comfort bathing.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not leaving you covered in blood and—whatever this stuff is.” Clark eyes the grayish ooze with suspicion. “Who knows, it might be full of poison or something.”

“Alfred—”

“Diana’s taking care of him,” Clark interrupts. “And the rest of the team are taking care of the clean up.” Bruce huffs a little as Clark leads him to the edge of the bathtub—half in annoyance, probably, and half in pain. “You’re out of excuses, Bruce.”

He smiles a little when there’s no answer. Then he turns the X-ray vision on, checking for broken bones and any other internal damage. He’d already torn off what was left of the batsuit and Bruce is only in the undersuit now, large sections of it soaked through with things Clark doesn’t want to think about.

“What’s the damage, doc?” Bruce asks sarcastically, twisting away to turn the faucet on.

“Nothing broken,” Clark replies, not surprised that Bruce knew exactly what he was doing. “But that doesn’t mean nothing’s wrong. That last hit you took was—” He stops abruptly. “If your suit wasn’t armored—”

“Lucky it is, then,” Bruce says, cutting him off. He goes to lift the top half of the undersuit off but suddenly freezes, gasping in pain. “Goddamnit,” he grits out, and slowly lowers his arms again. 

“Stop that,” Clark says, stepping forward and carefully pushing Bruce’s hands out of the way. His fingers skim over Bruce’s back, looking for a zipper or a button or something to undo, but he can’t find anything at all. “How do you even take this thing off?” 

“It’s just a shirt, Clark,” Bruce says. “It’s not rocket science.” He pauses, then sighs. “But I can’t lift my arms. You’ll have to cut it off.” 

“What?” 

“There are scissors in the drawer.” 

Bruce sits down on the edge of the tub and turns the faucet off. The fact that he isn’t protesting anymore is more worrying than the thought of hacking at his clothes, so Clark just grabs the scissors and does as he’s told. But when he starts peeling the fabric away from Bruce’s skin Clark freezes himself, because—

Scars litter Bruce’s entire body, from long, rough-edged gashes and short clean lines to round, raised marks that must have come from bullet wounds. Clark shouldn’t be surprised—Bruce was human, after all, and he’d been protecting Gotham for decades—but for some reason, he’d never really thought about the toll it must take on Bruce’s body. Or the fact that Bruce would have to bear permanent evidence of that toll for the rest of his life, right there on his own skin.

Clark isn’t really aware of what he’s doing when he reaches out and runs his fingertips over a particularly long scar, one that skates disturbingly close to Bruce’s spine. It’s long-healed but still starkly visible against Bruce’s skin, and something heavy settles in Clark’s stomach as he thinks about how Bruce might have gotten it, what the circumstances were, how close he came to maybe not surviving it. 

“Not all of us are invulnerable.”

Clark jumps a little. Bruce’s head is half-turned towards him, watching him with guarded eyes. Clark guiltily pulls his hand back and looks away quickly. He feels like he should say something but his mind has gone blank, still thinking about Bruce lying in some filthy backstreet somewhere, bleeding out all over the sidewalk. Instead, Clark pulls the rest of the undersuit off, careful not to let his hands—or his gaze—linger anywhere for too long. Still, he can’t help but notice how defined Bruce’s arms and legs are, how broad his chest is, how much strength is in every line of his body, banged up though it is.

He helps Bruce into the tub and for a long moment, Bruce just sits there, head bowed, eyes closed. Clark stares, the heavy feeling in his stomach intensifying. For the first time since they’d met Bruce actually looks _tired_ , exhausted even, and that shouldn’t surprise Clark either but it does—all of this does. Batman was larger than life, a mythic figure who loomed in alleyways and crouched on rooftops, watching over Gotham like some kind of avenging angel, swathed in black and impossible to take down. But Bruce… as skilled as he was, Bruce was a man, just a man, and a man who could be exhausted and in pain and covered head-to-toe with dozens and dozens of scars. 

Bruce lifts head and his eyes flicker open when Clark starts cleaning away the blood and ooze. Their eyes meet but Bruce stays silent, watching as Clark runs the washcloth over his shoulders and arms and back. Clark licks his lips, and Bruce’s gaze briefly lowers to his mouth. He can hear Bruce’s heartbeat, steady and familiar, and for some reason the sound of it eases the knot in his chest.

“Maybe not invulnerable,” Clark says quietly. “But definitely not weak, either.” 


End file.
